


The Kids Are Alright

by wierdrocks



Series: Young and Hopelss [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Runaways (Comics)
Genre: Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Season 2 Compliant, References to physical abuse, eventual happy ward, references to psychological abuse, references to sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wierdrocks/pseuds/wierdrocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life at the Hostile. Mostly small chapters</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Most of the books in the family room, it turned out, were self-help books. Karolina selected a stack of eight that she thought Ward would benefit from and left them in his room.  
"You don't have to read them if you don't want to, and you definitely don't have to read all of them." She chuckled. He looked through the stack and picked out one on surviving child abuse. It was actually meant as a guide for social workers and guardians, but a lot of passages were highlighted –in different colors, likely at different times by different people judging by fading and line consistency. There were also sticky notes with annotations on them in different handwriting.  
He'd only been meaning to leaf through the book, but ended up spending an entire afternoon pouring over every page and note, scribbling his thoughts on certain topics and recommended coping methods down in his journal. He'd be needing a new one of those soon. 

When he went to re-shelf the books he didn't find particularly helpful, Ward came across a section labeled "Sex". Most of the books were about sex itself, sexuality, body positivity, and there were two college-level text books on anatomy. One the end, however, was a book aimed at sufferers of childhood rape and molestation.  
He glanced back at Chase, who was on the couch with his headphones on, probably reading about particle physics or some or other subject that served as more proof that the boy would get along spectacularly with FitzSimmons. Ward took the book off the shelf and leafed through it discreetly, holding it directly in front of him and turning his back to Chase completely. It was clearly written for preteens and younger children, with sections in between chapters that offered advice to parents and guardians. Ward decided that that didn't really matter and tucked the book under his arm.  
The wave of self-consciousness that washed over him in that instance was familiar and unwelcome. He swallowed hard. He hadn't included certain details of his childhood abuse in his initial confession because... Well, because he had never told anyone about what his sister and her friends had done to him. He had scarcely revisited the memories in over a decade. Now he felt uneasy and small... Dirty. Almost without thinking, he grabbed another random book from the shelf to cover his.  
“That’s really good.” He turned a little too sharply when he heard Molly’s voice. She smiled. “The book.” She pointed at the one he’d grabbed. It was leather bound and covered in green and black swirls. “It’s called Wicked, it’s supposed to be a prequel to the Wizard of Oz.” Ward had heard of it.  
“Didn't they turn it into a musical?” Chase was standing on his knees, leaning against the back of the couch.  
“Yeah, Karolina’s got the soundtrack. It’s really great. Except the ending.” Her last words sounded spiteful and Ward wanted to laugh.  
“Hey!" Chase hopped over the back of the couch, grinning wide. "That's a great idea!”  
“What is?” Molly asked.  
“When I'm getting to know someone, I always ask what kind of music they like. So, it stands to reason that when you make a person, you have to figure out what kind of music they like." He patted Ward gently on the shoulder.  
He already knew that, really. Agent Grant Ward was into classic rock, plus a little Springsteen. But... What music did he really like? What songs did he connect to? What bass lines reverberated through his spine, and what vocal choices gave him chills? He honestly didn't know.  
“That is a great idea!” Molly put both fists in the air. “Let’s what we can do about getting on an iPod.  
“I’m a genius.” Chase put his fists on his hips.  
“You should talk to Karolina, she’s got a huge record collection.” 

He had to wait until Karolina came back from a gig before he could talk to her about the musical. Apparently a group of their rescues were setting up shop across the country in above an antiques shop and book store. That would be the third Hostile in North America and the tenth worldwide. Karolina was helping them move in, secure necessities, and patch them into the Runaways' communication network. It was actually pretty impressive, like a small-scale SHIELD almost. Chase always downplayed his intelligence but Ward knew that he was probably one of the smartest people he'd ever met, and if he hadn't designed those systems himself, he definitely had a hand in it.

The sun was setting when Karolina blew into the bar in a whir of excitement. Chase greeted her from his place cleaning glasses. A couple of costumers, regulars Ward suspected, who were aware of what the kids running this place did with the funds, called “Hellos” too. Karolina waved back at them and hopped up on a bar stool.  
“Hey Chase.” She said.  
“Hey Kar. How’s Nicco?”  
“Great. They’re all great. That place is gonna be,” She made excited gestures with her hands. “Amazing.” She sighed. “I’m gonna go change.” Her go-clothes were a black turtle neck with the logo super-imposed over the front to a really cool effect, leather pants, and a half jacket that increased flexibility and agility. She disappeared into the back and Ward followed after a few minutes later.

Karolina's room was the same size and configuration as Ward's. The most marked difference was that nearly available surface was being used to hold some kind of music: boxes of CD's and vinyl records, cassette tapes, even a couple of 8tracks. These, as well as all of their required players all looked like they had been scavenged from resale shops and dumpsters. Another difference between their rooms? Kar's ceiling was painted to look like a partially cloudy daytime sky. Ward looked up at it and smiled. What else would Kar have above her head?  
"What's up?" She asked, smiling. She'd taken off the inhibitor bracelet she wore most of the time. Being told someone is an alien being and seeing that their skin and hair glowed with a kaleidoscope of colors, always shifting and moving across the surface, rays of light sloughing off of their form, were two different things entirely.  
"Molly and Chase said I should ask you about borrowing some music?" He signed, face hopeful.  
"Oh!" She beamed. "Well, I have," Her feet lifted off the ground and she floated over to a set of boxes on a shelf. "Classic rock, eighties and nineties," Across the room. "Or musicals, official Broadway casts mostly, and movie and TV soundtracks."  
“Wicked?” He asked.  
“Yeah!” She plucked the CD from its place almost without looking and set it on the desk. Also on the desk? "Country, classical, jazz," Near the closet. "Grunge, alternative, classic and contemporary punk, pop punk, and hair metal." Above the dresser. "Pop, indie, folk, fifties dance hall music, and this is everything I have that's not in English." The shelf above her bed was mostly vinyl. "And the Beatles." She announced this section with a kind of reverence that reminded Ward of the way Coulson would talk about Captain America. He took a deep breath to calm himself. "What would you like?"  
He took another breath. Choice. Choice. Choice. It was easy before. What did your cover want? What did the person you were pretending to be like? What would make your superiors happy? What would keep you out of trouble with them? But he didn't have any of those answers. He couldn't even risk asking the questions. These needed to be his decisions. His. Grant Ward, Person.  
Karolina's face fell and he realized he'd waited too long to answer.  
"How about you take a bunch of different albums." She said, plucking a few, it seemed, at random. "And listen and see what really speaks to you, and we can work from there." He nodded. She set the stack she'd collected on her desk and rummaged around in a storage container near her bed until she pulled out an old CD player and a pair of headphones.  
"I'll see what I can do about getting you an mp3 player or a smart phone or something. I have a ton of digital music too."  
"Can I ask about the Beetles?" Ward asked while his hands were still free. Kar beamed.  
"They're the best! I mean," She looked back at the shelf. "Their music helped me through a lot of rough spots in my life, even before my parents turned their diplomatic mission into "We will conquer these puny humans". They were the first Earth music I heard. Hey Jude was playing in a mall or something. They’re why I called myself Lucy in the Sky.” She sighed and repeated quietly, "They're the best."  
"Thank you." He signed before being handed the music and ushered off to spend the rest of the night listening.

Grant Ward, Person liked fast-paced music. Not dance songs really; he wanted something with lyrics. He couldn’t sing, but the words and meaning behind songs… he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand it. Maybe he wanted to hear the stories. Yeah, stories. That would explain why he went back for entries from Kar’s musicals sections twice over the next few days. He’d only ever seen a couple of stage performances in his life, one of which being an opera that he had to kill someone in the middle of and then leave, but hearing the music and reading about the shows online made him want to get to a theater.  
Rock musicals were his favorites, probably because of the prevalence of those fast-paced songs that made him feel alive; made him feel like a person. He stopped playing the Next to Normal disk a week after his initial trip to Kar’s for fear he would wear the thing out. Molly asked Karolina to show him the Runaways cast album.  
“Is this where you guys got the name?” He’d asked.  
“No, it was just serendipity.” Molly replied. They were both lying on the bed in Ward’s room, staring up at the ceiling, listening to a song about neglect and childhood and horrible parenting and innocence.  
“Oh!” Molly sat up all of sudden and brought her backpack into her lap. Ward hadn’t noticed she’d come in carrying it. She pulled out a dictionary-sized book and handed it to him. “I figured that one you took from the library wouldn’t be all that helpful.” Ward furrowed his brow, taking the book from her. He looked down at the cover and saw that it was the most recent addition of a self-help book aimed at now-adult sufferers of child molestation and rape. It Doesn’t Go Away the title read in blue block letters. Ward swallowed.  
Molly lay back down, her curly hair fanning out around her head like a halo. The cast started singing nursery rhymes and she started singing along. He laid back too, book on the other side of him, mouthing along to the words.


	2. Chapter 2

“Skye?” She was sitting across from him at a table, eyes on her laptop.   
“Hm?” She glanced up, flashing a smile. He smiled back.  
“Nothing.” He shook his head. She shot him and unimpressed look and he laughed.   
“What’s so funny?” Coulson was suddenly behind him; hand on the back of his chair. Ward tried to move his arms, only to find that he was handcuffed to the table that was no longer a nice round one in front of a café in Paris. Skye was standing now, her arms folded, eyes glaring angrily at him. He opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn’t.   
“Are you laughing at the way your new friends sold you out?” Skye asked. “Or the way you did to them exactly what you did to us?”  
“You can’t touch anything without poisoning it, can you?” Coulson asked, walking around to the other side of the table. 

This was the sixth morning in a row he’d woken up in a cold sweat, heart racing, tears streaking down his face. This was the sixth morning in a row that he worked to regulate his breathing, crept quietly out of his room to shower before anyone else. If they saw they might ask questions, might try and make him feel better. He didn’t deserve to feel better. He deserved the nightmares and the shaking and he deserved the tightness in his chest that was present even though his lungs were supposed to be getting better now that the explosion was two weeks in the past.  
After readying himself for the day, he passed Chase on the way to the family room, bumping shoulders with the lethargic teen.   
“Hey.” Chase said, eyes blinking slowly. He reached a hand out and placed it gently on Ward’s shoulder. He remembered a time when he might have flinched or backed away at such contact. He was glad to have those days so far behind him. “You’re cool to have around, you know that?” Chase yawned, squeezing Ward’s shoulder. “I just needed you t’know that.” He nodded, head going a little too far up and a little too far down. “We’ve got a gig, I need you to pack some snack. ‘S that okay?” Ward waited for him to open his eyes again before signing,  
“Okay.”   
Chase patted his shoulder gently, just with his fingers, before marching back down the hallway. “Thanks, Cook.” He threw over his shoulder. 

He got to the kitchen and set up the tablet so he could read the recipe he’d found the previous night. Also a great find from last night? A box of dried oats the Runaways had completely forgotten about stashed in the back of the pantry. He’d had homemade peaches and cream oatmeal exactly one: while staying undercover with a nice old woman in Italy. It was one of the best breakfasts he’ ever had.   
Canned peaches and some of the half and half Chas used in his coffee would have to substitute for the fresh cream and peaches she’d used. The kitchen did have cinnamon, brown sugar, and the smallest amount of vanilla extract ever, though.   
He’d just gotten done pairing bowls full of steaming oatmeal with spoons when Klara wandered in, dressed in a flow-y pink dress. He waved.  
“Hi, Cookie.” There had been no real discussion of his nickname. They’d just sort of started calling him that once he started looking up all sort of different recipes for their meals. He didn’t protest. It… fit. Klara was carrying two large metal lunch boxes. She set them on the counter. “You, me Gert, and Kar are staying here today… And Old Lace.” She explained with a bright smile. Klara always smiled brightly. She picked up a ceramic bowl with roses painted on it and took a deep sniff over its mouth. “Mmm.” She hummed.  
“Peaches and cream.” He’d just learned those signs while the oats cooked.   
“Thank you.” She said, taking her spoon from the kitchen island. He smiled. “Do you think you’ll be able to work on the green house today?” She asked. He nodded.   
“Of course. It’s almost done.” He signed.   
“Thanks. I’m going to ask Kar to drive me to the gardening store to get soil and pots.” She was standing and eating. She almost always did. 

Ward busied himself filling water bottles, unboxing granola bars, and making and plastic wrapping sandwiches for the go-team’s journey. Chase arrived a little later, dressed in a yellow and grey military-style flak jacket, cargo pants, and combat boots. He had a pair of goggles on his forehead and there was patch on the right breast of his jacket featuring Old Lace’s toothy grin.   
“Oatmeal!” He said excitedly, grabbing a glass bowl that had probably been meant to hold decorative rocks. “Fuck yeah!” He spooned too much into his mouth and immediately spat half of it back into the bowl. “Hot, hot, oatmeal is hot.” He shifted from one foot to the other. Ward and Klara shot each other unimpressed looks.  
“Did you hurt yourself?” Gert pushed the swinging door open. She wasn’t on the go-team, but that wasn’t stopping her from wearing her lilac flak jacket (Old Lace logo emblazed on the back, fabric synched at the elbows) with her regular jeans and tee shirt.  
“I buhned mah tung.” Chase said, tongue half hanging out of his mouth. She rolled her eyes.  
“Of course you did.” Gert’s bowl was a plain white ceramic vessel with smiling pink pigs painted on the side.   
“Gert.” Ward signed. Her sign name, they had deiced together, was the word “sarcasm” with “G”.   
“Hm?”   
“What’s up with you and pigs?” He asked. She didn’t even eat pork. She finished chewing, looking fondly off to the side.  
“I had a pet big when I was younger.” She said, smiling. “His name was Orwell.” Her face fell and she shook her head. Chase wrapped and arm around her shoulders. “My mother and father ate him.” Ward gaped. “Yeah.” She took a deep breath.  
“I’m so sorry.” He signed.   
“Me too.”   
The door swung open again and Kenny entered, dressed to go in heavy jeans, hiking boots, and a double-breasted flak jacket, and all in shades of maroon and burgundy. His belt buckle sported a laser-cut version of the logo. Molly followed in after him. Her outfit was a biker-style flak, jeans, and biker boots, her head topped with a logoed baseball cap, hair braided down her back. Her clothes were dark shades of pink.  
“Millions of peaches,” Kenny sang, a little off-key. “Peaches for me.” He picked up his bowl. It was also probably meant to be decorative: carved from a rosy wood. Kenny had explained that it reminded of home.   
“Thanks Cookie.” Molly said, climbing up on a chair. Molly’s bowl had the Avenger’s logo on one side and a sticker of the Runaways’ logo on the other.   
“You’re welcome.” He signed. “Snacks are all ready to go. You guys have all of your equipment?”   
“Yep, van’s packed and ready to go. We just gotta eat and then we’ll be good.” Chase said, still nursing his burnt tongue, just not being so dramatic about it.  
“Kar went for a walk.” Molly said.  
“I can reheat her oatmeal.” Ward said. The Molly made a face.  
“You didn’t make any for you.” She said, counting the bowls in the room.  
“There weren’t enough oats.” Ward explained. Almost immediately, the others grabbed the plain white ceramic bowl he’d been using and spoon portions of their breakfasts into it. Except Chase. Klara stopped him.  
“You don’t have to,” Ward tried. Gert shoved the bowl at him.   
“Eat. It’s good for you.”


	3. Chapter 3

Karolina, Gert, Klara, and Ward waved as the van took off, Chase the helm.  
“Gonna go feed the raptor.” Gert announced.  
“I’ll get the bar ready, but can you take it for the morning?” Karolina asked as the four of them headed inside. “Me and Klara are going into town.”   
“You been savin’ up your tips, Roses?” Gert asked. Klara only tended the bar occasionally, but usually got the most in tips. Being an adorable ten year old girl will do that to a person.  
“Yes, and Cook almost has the green house finished.”  
“Alright, guess I’m on morning shift then.” 

Morning shift was always slow enough for someone whomever was working the bar to also be able to slip into the kitchen and whip up a basket of fries and whatnot if need be. Ward slipped on one of his garish cardigans as protection against the slight chill in the air and got to work putting together the last of the green house’s shelves and tables, as well as re-securing the door that connected it with the back of the bar.

The jeep pulled back up to the Hostile around noon, when the college-aged crowd was slinking in for what would be their breakfast. Ward was putting together plates of loaded potato skins, grilled cheeses, and garbage plate omelets. Klara waited patiently for the crowd to thin enough to give Ward some free time to invite back to the greenhouse, claiming she had something to show her. He hadn’t understood Karolina’s excited woop at the time.

“I speak to the plants.” Klara said, standing in the middle of her newly-completed greenhouse, cupping a handful of dirt in both her hands. He raised both his eyebrows in question and she smiled. In the next moment, there was a tiny green sprout poking its way up through the dirt. Seconds later, Klara was holding a fully grown tomato plant in her hands. Ward stood there with his mouth hanging open for a moment. She giggled to herself.  
“I heard you were trying to expand your culinary horizons.”   
“I want to learn how to make more than just bar food for you guys, especially now that we can have more fresh produce.” She nodded, then walked over to a shelf to place her plant in a pot of soil.   
“Let me know what you need. I can do fruit really easily, almost as well as flowers.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “That’s why they call me Roses.” She smiled fondly. “They listen especially well. I’m going to work on vegetables. Chase requested green beans. They’re a little tricky.”  
“Herbs?” He had to finger spell that on, making a mental note to look up the actual sign later.   
“Give me a couple of weeks.” She grinned. “Molly’s been helping me accept and control my powers.”  
“Accept?” He had to finger spell that one too. Klara looked down and wrapped her fingers around her arm.  
“I’ve had them since I was really little, and my parents…” She took a deep breath. He put a hand on her shoulder as if to say she didn’t have to tell him, but she looked with such determination in her eyes that he knew that was a lost cause. “My parents called me an abomination. They thought that I was cursed. And for a really long time, I believed them. I couldn’t see the beauty in what I could do.” She waved her hand over a couple of pots of soil and green poked through the dirt. “But the Runaways… they helped me see.” She smiled, turning her head to face him again. “I can create beautiful things.”

When he got back to the kitchen Karolina was dropping a basket of fries into the deep fryer and he felt a little bit guilty for not having been there to do his job.  
“Hey!” Kar said excitedly. “I grabbed you something while we were in town.” She picked up a two foot long chalk board up from its place lean against a wall. “Check it out! It’s a specials board! You’re trying all those recipes, everyone loves your sandwiches, you could make up a menu and turn this place into a respectable eating establishment.” She said the last words in jest, shimming her shoulders sassily. “What’d you think?” Ward paused.  
“What’d you think?” He signed.  
“I think we should do whatever you want.” She smiled. Agency and choice were a big part of what the Runaways were about. They were also two things that Grant Ward had never had much of. He took a deep breath. It did make sense, didn’t it? He wasn’t just cooking meals for the Runaways; they also had a fairly steady stream of costumers, and expanding the menu from wings and nachos, hell, having an established menu to begin with, could bring in a lot more people. That would mean more money, which would mean more stability, and being able to help more kids. He wasn’t privy to their bill payments just yet, but he couldn’t imagine they were staying that far above the risk line.   
“Okay.” He smiled.   
“Alright!” Karolina jumped into the air.


	4. Chapter 4

Mornings were still slow. Not completely void of life like they had been before the menu (and the now three chalk boards it now took up, two bolted to the wall opposite the bar) but slow nonetheless. Business didn’t really pick up until a little after noon when the college kids stumbled in in droves. There were two people in the bar, both of whom kept pausing to rave at Ward about the oatmeal they’d ordered. He waved a thank you through the window each time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to blush, allowed himself to blush, been unafraid to show that he was flattered and a little embarrassed. He’d come up with the combination of berries and spices for that oatmeal and he was allowed to feel a little sheepish when people complimented it.  
Hey. He made something. He made something people liked. He made something good. He made people happy.  
He was sure the redness on his face wasn’t going to go away. 


	5. Chapter 5

The knock was small. He probably wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been lying awake, putting off the inevitable tossing and turning and nightmares. Ward was out of bed instantly at the sound. In the past, he might have been suspicious, probably would have asked whoever had knocked to state their business first. He probably wouldn’t have just opened the door and looked down to see Molly in her pajamas, eyes puffy and red. He turned his light on and knelt down in front of her.  
“Molly?” Her signed name was “hat” with and M. “What’s wrong?”  
“I had nightmare.” She whispered. He wrapped his arms around her. He didn’t even think about it. He couldn’t remember whether Agent Grant Ward was the kind of person who would pick up his friend and carry them inside, let them curl against his side, and bury their face in his abdomen. He found that he didn’t really care.  
“It was about my parents.” Molly said quietly after a few minutes of silence. He squeezed her shoulder. “They kill people. Like, for money I mean, but also not. I mean, they don’t really need to. We were really well off, because they both inherited a lot from their parents… but they still took contract assassin jobs anyway, and they didn’t care who the person was… They made me do it too.” Wars stared dumbly into the darkness in front of his eyes, at a complete loss for words. “They have powers too.” She continued. “They can control people’s minds and stuff… one time, they made this guy walk off the top of a building. They laughed. They used to make me rip people apart. They told me I would get used to it, that I would start to enjoy it.” She snuggled closer to Ward, tears dampening his flannel sleep shirt.  
“I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be like them.” She sobbed. Ward stroked her arm, making quiet shushing noises. “I’m not like them!” She practically screamed into his abdomen. “I’m not a monster!” He held her tighter. She took a few deep breaths. “I’m not a monster.” She whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

"What does mushroom gravy taste like?" A teenaged boy with a white streak through his hair leaned against the bar. He was talking about the vegan disco fries. This was one of those rare occasions where Ward was working up front. Chase had stepped away for a few minutes. Ward took out his cell phone (new. He'd had to save up the money. The menu was doing great things.) and typed on the notepad,  
"Mushrooms."   
"Ah." The boy chuckled. "I'll try 'em."   
"$3.99." Ward typed. Gert and Chase appeared then, hands in each other's pockets.  
"Brandon!" Chase exclaimed, throwing his arms the boy with the streak.  
"Hey, Chase." Brandon chuckled.   
"Brandon, this is Cook, Cookie, meet Striker." Chase patted the boy's shoulder the same way he did Ward's. Ward waved. "He's one of us, travels between Hostiles."  
"What for?" Ward signed.  
"You're about to find out." Gert announced. "Come on." She nodded toward the back.  
"But my fries." Brandon sounded devastated. “I will never find out what mushroom gravy tastes like.”  
“It tastes like mushrooms.” Gert rolled her eyes. “Now come on.”   
Ward followed the two of them to the back and into the elevator. 

He'd seen the third button on the panel before of course, but it hadn't seemed important, nor his business and he was more than a little grateful at the chance to be introduced to another piece of the Runaways' world. Not only did he feel trusted, but he had honestly earned that trust. This wasn't the work of one of his aliases. He was riding in the elevator because he had done good.   
The doors slid open to reveal a small, cramped space. In the center, reaching from the ceiling to the floor, was a cylindrical structure about as wide around as his waist. It was a dulled silver color, like it really should be being polished but the Runaways weren't bothering, and pieces of it glowed blue.   
Gert and Brandon stepped out of the elevator, striding up to the thing calmly, but Ward hung back, weary of strange, glowy machinery. Gert turned back and gave him a look that was at once sympathetic and annoyed. Only Arsenic could have pulled such an expression. Maybe May.  
"When I packed up my dinosaur and blew out of my parents' place I took a bunch of their future tech with me. I didn't understand most of it but Chase got this thing up and running."   
"What is it?" Ward signed, face apprehensive as he stepped into the room.   
"A hyper-efficient generator." Gert explained, pressing her thumb to a scanner. A panel slid open.  
"It can feed off of and make the most out of any type of energy." Brandon held up a hand. "I make the rounds to all of the hostiles, supplying energy in one form or another." The hand he had up was suddenly covered in arcing electricity. Ward's eyes widened. He was beginning to think that the number of super humans in the world was much, much greater than SHEILD or HYDRA ever thought. He was grateful the Runaways hadn't gotten dumped onto the net with everyone else.  
"My body naturally creates an excess of the bioelectricity present in all human beings." He pressed his hand to the open panel. "I have to off-load it periodically, and since I'm a Runaway, I rule eleven it. Help a kid out and all that." Ward nodded. "I like the travel. Okay." He pulled his hand away. "Ninety days of electricity, there you go, Gert."  
"Alright. How long d'you think you're sticking around?"   
“Not long." He shrugged. "The treehouse's next on the list and I really wanna see Caleb." He smiled fondly.   
"Okay. Molly can get you a bunk." She nodded toward the elevator.

 

Brandon hitched a ride with a go-team comprised of everyone but Klara and Chase late one afternoon. The following morning, Chase didn’t come up for breakfast.   
“Maybe we should check on him.” Klara said, concerned. Ward nodded.  
“Can you get the bar ready?”  
“Yes.” She nodded, grabbing the serving tray out of its cupboard for him. He loaded the tray with a plate of peanut butter banana pancakes and a glass of milk and walked it down to Chas’s room. He figured the blond was just sleeping in, though the lack of an answer to his knock was a bit troubling   
The walls of Chase and Gert’s room were covered in posters for classic movies, mostly in black and white, as well as posters for video games. In places, the pale yellow surfaces sported sharpie scribblings of numbers and symbols that looked to Ward like they’d been doodled directly onto the yellow walls because their author didn’t have the patience to find a pen. In addition to the bed (no bigger than anyone else’s, Ward noted), two desks (one noticeably more cluttered than the other), and one larger than average dresser, the floor was crowded with the biggest dog bed Ward had ever seen –and he’d seen a lot of dog beds. It held a lovingly-chewed billow and a squeaky rubber taco.   
Chase was still in bed, curled in on himself beneath the covers. Ward set his breakfast down on the desk and sat on the edge of the bed. The boy wiggled his face into view and looked at Ward with red, puffy eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

“What’s wrong?” Ward signed. Chase sat up, still burritoed in the blankets.  
“I told Gert I’d be okay.” He huffed a laughed. “The worst part is I think she actually believed me this time.” Ward put a hand on his shoulder, or at least where his shoulder should’ve been beneath the blankets. “Today’s The Day for me.” He swallowed. “The day I left my folks’. It’s stupid I get like this. I’m so stupid.”  
“You are not stupid.” Ward signed as sternly as possible. Chase chuckled weakly.  
“How long have you been here? Three months?”  
“Three months, nine days.” Ward signed without thinking. Maybe if he had he would’ve realized how weird it was that he was keeping an exact count. Chase nodded.  
“Cool. Good.” He sighed, sitting back against the wall, head back against James Dean’s red jacket. “I left because they used to hit me. Both of them, for different reasons… I used to play soccer, I was five when I started, played on middle school teams, made junior varsity in high school. And I was good, okay. I was good. But also, I used to get like, straight A’s all the time… The kids and at school didn’t take kindly to me getting good grades and stuff, bein’ smart, and my mom didn’t take too kindly to be being a wimp, getting bullied and whatnot. So I let my grades slip. If I didn’t get the good grades, my classmates would leave me alone, and mom wouldn’t smack me around to toughen me up, right?” He chuckled again, just as weak, just as sad.  
“But then my dad started beating me up because my grades were slipping.” He put on a voice “‘Straight D’s’ Chase?! Is this what you wanna be!? Some dumb jock!?’ I hit him once. In the face. It felt really good.” He nodded. “That was what? Three years ago today? Yeah. I was fourteen.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I still feel really broken.” He burrowed further down into the blankets. “That’s why I do this, why the Runaways exist… so kids with shit parents don’t have to feel like it’s their fault.”  
“That’s the suckiest feeling.” Ward resigned. Chase nodded.  
“The suckiest of them all… did you bring me food?” Ward nodded. “Oh good, food.”


	8. Chapter 8

Old Lace did not seem to understand that she was an eleven foot long reptile with sharp claws and a sand-papery tongue. She seemed to think that she was the prehistorical equivalent of a Bichon Frisé, as evidenced by her insistence on a claim to a spot on the couch, among other things:  
On the rare occasions she was allowed in the kitchen or the bar room proper, her head would find its way into people’s laps, slit-pupil eyes begging for scraps. She wagged her tail whenever she caught sight of Arsenic, made chirping and clicking sounds at the stereo when Ward played Pippin soundtrack. She tackled people and licked their faces playfully, climbed up on their laps on the couch or the recliner, nuzzled her head underneath arms and chins. She’d been wary of Ward at first, but soon enough, not even he was safe from the affections of the raptor.


	9. Chapter 9

It was just a doodle really, and a pipe dream. The banner had gone through different incarnations, the scroll going from thick to thin, covering just his back to curling over his shoulders. He debated with himself what order to put the names in. Coulson May FitzSimmons Skye Ward was the one he finally settled on. The bird, however, had always been the same: no specific species, just a black bird with wings outstretched, flying upwards the banner, towards the sky, towards better things.  
He was just darkening some of the feathers on the bird's wings on a page in his notebook, the latest page in a string of pages sporting the artwork, when Kenny glanced over at the book on his way to the fridge.  
"That's cool." He said. "What is it?" Ward shrugged.  
"An idea I had for a tattoo maybe." He shook his head. “When I worked for SHEILD… We weren’t allowed to get tattoos. You could be recognized.”  
“Right. Right.” Kenny nodded. Ward shook his head.  
"It's stupid."  
"Dude, no, you should totally get this." Kenny said excitedly.  
"What?"  
"Yeah, I mean, if you really want to. You've been doing great choosing things and taking back your agency and letting yourself want things... If you want to pay tribute to these people you love so much, even if you think the best thing for everyone is for you to stay away from them, if you want to do this, you should." Ward took a deep breath.  
"After everything I've done, I don't think it would be tasteful."  
"Okay." Kenny nodded. Logically, that should have been the end of it. Ward had hurt these people and they did not deserve their names besmirched by their inclusion in some ridiculous back tattoo...  
But it wasn't ridiculous was it? Coulson, May, FitzSimmons, and Skye... They were the reason he wasn't as broken as he once was. Yes, he had been making leaps and bounds toward actual personhood in the past four months, but it all started on that plane with those people who cared for him and believed in him, the first people to ever do that... The more Ward thought about it, the closer he came to the conclusion that this was something he needed, not only for his recovery, but to honor his first real family.

"My girlfriend Julie works at a tattoo parlor in town." Karolina explained excitedly over dinner two nights later. "I can come with you and interpret if you like." 

Julie, it turned out, was the teenaged daughter of the local parlor owners. She was blonde-haired and blue-eyed and looked at Karolina like she was the beginning and end of the world. Her right upper arm was covered in rainbows super imposed over the silhouettes of butterflies in flight. A twisting ribbon of rainbow wrapped around left forearm.  
She studied the drawing Ward brought her for a few minutes before speaking.  
"Who are the names?" She asked.  
"My family." Karolina interpreted. Julie looked pained for a moment.  
"They're not with us anymore?" She sounded incredibly sympathetic.  
"No, no, I’m just not with them." Ward paused and Kar put a hand on his shoulder. "I did some bad things. I'm trying to make up for it now, put good in the world, do some service, but they aren't going to let me back into the fold. I understand why and I respect it." Kar pursed her lips. Ward put his hand over hers.  
"I'm sure they'll come around." Julie smiled. "This is a really beautiful piece. You designed it yourself?" Ward nodded.  
"It's not exactly what I want, I mean, the bird is terrible."  
"I can work around that." Julie chuckled. "I can even redraw it if you like?" Ward smiled broadly.  
"Really? That would be fantastic."  
"Absolutely. Is this the exact order you want the names in?" She asked, reaching back behind a desk to grab a pen and a drawing of the back of a man's torso. Ward nodded as she handed him the sheet and pen. "Show me exactly where you want it." He sketched out where he wanted the banner to curl over his shoulder blades, shoulders, and upper back, and where he wanted the bird to be, wings spread over his mid back.  
"Okay." Julie nodded. "We can definitely work with that."


	10. Chapter 10

“So where'd you want your patches?" Gert was sitting on the couch with a lap full of Old Lace, dinosaur covered in sewing supplies and a dark green flak jacket just Ward's size. He swallowed hard.  
"On the shoulders." He tried not to let his fingers fumble. He understood now why he'd bought the sweaters, and why he wanted so badly for the Runaways to be happy and healthy... Well, one side of the reason. It was the same reason why he'd bought the denim shirt (and the plaid if he was being honest with himself) and why millennial punk rock was speaking to him so profoundly. The same reason he wanted patches on his shoulders.  
"Okay." Gert nodded.  
"Thank you." He signed. She shrugged one shoulder.  
"Like I said, Cook. You're one of us now. That means you get a jacket, bruh." She smirked.  
"Thank you for letting me in."  
Gert looked at him long and hard for a moment. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.  
“You’re welcome.” She finally said. “How do you feel about guns?” Ward raised his eyebrows. “You want to go on gigs with us too, don’t you?” He nodded. “So how do you feel about guns?”  
“I can shoot them.” Ward shrugged.  
“I have some if you want, Kenny’s figured them out.” She dug her phone out from beneath Old Lace’s tail and swiped at for a few moments. Then, a portion of the bookshelf slid open to reveal Kenny on the other side. He waved. Ward blinked.  
“That’s the last secret, we promise.” Gert crossed her heart. Ward shook his head.  
“Come on, this is really cool!” Kenny waved him over to the secret door.  
The room beyond was full of crates of things like blankets, shoes, clothing, but also what might be characterized as school supplies, but Ward had seen enough food journals handed and stuffed nonperishables into enough backpacks in his four months with this team to know a little better than that. There were also things like small bundles of cash, switch blade knives, pepper spray; anything a kid not wanting to be put up in a Hostile might need. In the very back of the room was a crate of that contained the guns Gert had spoken of, though not quite as Ward had imagined.  
“Cool, huh?” Kenny said, picking one of them up. It was sleek and silvery and glowed blue like the generator. “I mean, I don’t like guns, but these Gert stole from her parents. She said she’d planned on selling them, but there isn’t really a market for weapons that don’t exist, y’know?” He handed it to Ward, who weighed it in his hands and realized that the design was familiar. He smiled to himself, and was stupid enough to think for a moment that he’d like to see the look on FitzSimmons’ faces when he told them the Night Night gun lived on into perpetuity.  
Kenny picked up a small, oblong canister.  
“This is the ammo… we don’t understand how they work, but they stun, even through body armor, and there’s a hundred shots in one of these.” He tapped the silvery thing. Ward nodded. “We also,” He moved to another crate and brought out two Glock 9’s. “Have these, and I would recommend these for any target practice ‘cause they’re a significantly less finite resource.” Ward smiled and nodded again. 

Later, Molly insisted on setting up several glass bottles on poles out behind the bar. She’d glued drawings to them:  
“This is my mom and dad, and these are Gert’s parents, ten Chase’s, Kenny’s mom, plus his doctors, and this is the guy Klara’s parents sold her to.” She explained as they walked out their makeshift range. Ward stopped in his tracks. “Oh don’t worry, Chase ruined his credit and issued an arrest warrant for him in sixteen countries.” Ward nodded, and they walked on.

Ward hadn’t expected Kenny to have ear and eye protection ready in the supply room, but he’d pulled two pair out of each anyway. They used the muffs with kids who had sensory issues, and the glasses for “Your basic, everyday eye protection needs, you know? Sometimes there’s a chance you’ll get an ocular splinter.”  
It had been months since Ward had held a gun but the procedure still came naturally: load magazine, safety check, cock, point… aim… In the back of his mind, he’d worried about getting a weapon back into his hands. Would the actions be triggering? Would he snack back into his old self? He’d been honestly proud of the progress he’d made. Would target practice undo all that? He squeezed the trigger.  
A glass bottle sporting the picture of a man who had apparently bought a nine year old girl exploded into a millions pieces. That girl’s friend cheered. Ward breathed out slowly, gaging how he felt. Kenny had been working with him on identifying emotions, allowing himself to feel. The key was to ask himself questions: how did he feel? Why did he feel that way? Was this feeling good or bad?  
He felt… calm? Relaxed?  
Firing a gun was, no matter the origins of the skill, familiar and predictable. Certain guns fired certain bullets and they did certain things in certain conditions. He was no scientist, but gun physics? Gun physics he got.  
Point, gage target distance against bullet weight, aim, compensate for slight breeze, goodbye Mr. Yorkes, you were a bad father. Molly cheered again. He looked back and smiled. Was he showing off? Maybe a little. Mrs. Yorkes’ face exploded, then both of the Steins in succession.  
“Hey.” He turned to see Gert standing behind him, holding up the dark green army jacket, patches sewn on. Old Lace stood behind her, a rarity.  
Ward hesitated a moment before trading his weapon for the garment, slipping it on gingerly, like he might break it. He couldn’t break this, not like he’d broken so many other things, broken things previously thought unbreakable. The jacket fit him excellently. He touched one of the patches, smiling harder than he had in months.  
“Nice.” Gert handed him back the gun. “Now take ‘em out.” She nodded toward the range. Old Lace made a series of loud clicking noises he was sure were meant to be encouragements. Maybe it worked; those doctors went away.


	11. Chapter 11

The sunset that evening painted the sky bright oranges and reds. The Runaways –all of them –gathered on the roof of the bar with a platter of Ward’s sandwiches (a special one he’d named the Tech Guy. He’d just let Chase be flattered) and a cooler of sodas. Old Lace curled herself into a semi-circle and let them lean against her. Somehow Ward ended up in the middle of everyone, surrounded by their warmth in the cooling air.  
“Are we sure about Lacey being up here?” Ken asked between bites of his sandwich. “Is there pesto on this!?” Ward nodded. “Awesome.” He took another big bite.  
“It’s fine, no one can see us.” Karolina said. The prosciutto in her sandwich had been replaced by crisp and crunchy lettuce from Klara’s greenhouse, the same way the meat in Gert’s sandwich was thinly-sliced turkey instead of pork.  
“Yeah, Mettle, we kinda live in the middle of nowhere.” Gert said, gently stroking the place between Old Lace’s eyes. The dinosaur made noises that were probably prehistoric purrs.   
“Hey, hey, hey.” Chase was squished between her and Klara. “We do not live in the middle of nowhere.” Gert gestured at the empty expanse of field that stretched for miles behind the bar. “You can walk to civilization.” He pointed to the right, toward town. “If you can walk and find a Denny’s you are not in the middle of nowhere.”   
“Where are we then?” Molly asked from Ward’s lap.   
“We are slightly left of the middle of nowhere.” Chase explained, gesturing with his sandwich and grape soda. Ward nodded sagely. “See? Cookie agrees with me.”   
“Oh my gosh.” Gert rolled her eyes.   
“It’s true!”  
The group laughed. Ward leaned back against Old Lace’s body. You wouldn’t think of a reptile being warm, but Lace was radiating a really nice heat. It reminded him of Buddy, of the nights the two of them spent curled against each other in the brush… He shook his head to clear it. Thinking about Buddy would get him thinking about… He shook his head again and closed his eyes, leaned back against the curve of the raptor’s back. He let himself fell the warmth, not only of Old Lace, but of the Runaways. Of the family that had found him. His Team, the people whose names were tattooed across his back, had been the first real family he’d ever had. He’d thought for so long, he’d known, that they would be the only ones to ever care about him… Grant Ward had never been more grateful for second chances.


End file.
